


Follow You Into The Trenches

by twisting_vine_x



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Reichenbach, Scars, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Violence, discussion of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:04:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twisting_vine_x/pseuds/twisting_vine_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock goes underground to track down the gunmen, he doesn’t do it alone. Unfortunately, Moriarty’s operatives aren’t exactly helpless, and when John ends up in the line of fire – again – the ensuing events turn Sherlock’s world inside out in ways he might not ever be able to come back from.</p><p>(A/N: Written essentially because I wanted some bad-ass!Johnlock going after Moriarty's goons.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants details re: the angst tag (cause there is some pretty serious sadness in this story), I don't know if there's a way to do spoiler text on A03, but if anyone wants details before reading, please feel free to send me an email (e.minna.22@hotmail.com).

Filthy motel carpet underneath him. Aspergillus growing rank along the bottom of the north wall. Cigarette burns on the bedside table. Highly ineffective incandescent bulb situated above him. Sherlock is aware of it all – can’t turn it off – but the laptop in front of him takes precedence. He had attached a video camera to his tombstone – on the faint chance that one of Moriarty’s operatives might make an unwise appearance – and now he’s questioning the wisdom of that decision.

_I was so alone, and I owe you so much._

The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment – if Moriarty has taught him anything, it is that he does, indeed, have a heart to burn, and that John Watson has intertwined himself into the basic structure of Sherlock’s existence with frankly terrifying ease. Sherlock should probably hate him for it – should hate that his chest tightens whenever John is in danger, an annoying distraction; should hate that his thought processes derail when John smiles in his direction, and that his lungs malfunction when John tells him that he’s _brilliant_ and _amazing_ and _that was extraordinary, truly extraordinary_ – but the idea of living without John has become intolerable, and _feelings_ seem a small price to pay for having someone who simply makes his tea in a second kettle when he discovers that his preferred kettle is being used to grow mould cultures. And while Sherlock has always scoffed at the very notion of love – _a dangerous disadvantage –_ he has also never known anyone like John, and if being in love means that he wants to curl up around John and count his ribs and draw maps across his back and wear his jumpers and bite his lips and scratch lines into his skin and learn every inch of his body and drink tea with him at midnight and compose concertos for him and be buried in the same grave with him, then Sherlock is in trouble.

Of course, it’s all a moot point as he watches the video, because whatever John feels for him, it’s clear that Sherlock might well kill him by leaving. A phone call from Mycroft earlier in the day – _he’s barely moved from your bed for three weeks, and last night he dumped all his bullets and all the medication in the apartment into the toilet_ – had left him nearly clawing at the garish motel wallpaper, and, now, watching John plead with his tombstone, _one more miracle, please, for me, Sherlock_ , all Sherlock can imagine is John curled up in Sherlock’s bed, fighting the urge to put a gun in his mouth.

Some things are just a bit not good. Sherlock knows that this is far, far beyond that.

\- - -

In the end, he lasts three more days, until John comes back to his grave, pale and shaking and with another request of _please, Sherlock, stop this, please_ – and it’s at that point, sitting alone on a motel floor and watching the video play out on his laptop, that Sherlock gives himself up for lost.

Revealing himself to John in a safe location turns out to be difficult, but not impossible. Wearing a niqab allows him to travel about the city with anonymity, and the next time John comes to the graveyard, Sherlock has Mycroft’s advanced warning and is there waiting for him, standing behind the large tree beside his tombstone. It’s rather late by the time John arrives – the sun is almost down, casting the graveyard with shadows – and he only gets as far as standing in front of the tombstone, his arms wrapped around himself as he stares down at the grave, before Sherlock steps out from behind the tree, very deliberately ignoring the way his hands are shaking.  Despite the suddenness of his appearance, Sherlock watches as John looks at the woman wearing the niqab with nothing more than vague disinterest, and then his gaze slides up to Sherlock’s face – his eyes, Sherlock knows, along with his eyebrows, and the very top of his nose – and his entire body seems to freeze. Sherlock can see his thoughts clearly – _no, don’t do this to yourself, you know it’s impossible, you’re seeing things, you know you are_ – but when Sherlock takes a steadying breath and beckons John to follow him, John does so without a sound of protest. It takes them less than ten seconds to reach the relative safety of the treeline, and when he slides his hood over his head, hanging it over a branch before he turns around to look at John, John has gone ashen, his eyes wide and filling up with tears as he stares at Sherlock, and Sherlock has to try several times before he can speak, his own traitorous eyes starting to burn beyond his ability to control them.

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock barely gets the words out before he ends up with John wrapped tight around him, both of them sliding to their knees in the dirt, John biting out curses, _you mad, insane, bastard,_ nearly choking on the words, _you’re alive, god, Sherlock, thank you than you thank you thank you,_ his breath coming in sobs and his mouth pressed damp against Sherlock’s neck and his fingers curled so tight into the fabric of his niqab that Sherlock can see his knuckles turning white. Sherlock doesn’t even realizes he’s reciprocating until he’s got his arms wrapped around John, his face pressed into the short hair on his head and his own cheeks growing damp, and he’s shaking from the _too much_ of it all, too many sensations and too much data and too much _John_ , the familiar scent of him, comforting and safety and home,and god, Sherlock is never going to let John go, wants to crawl inside him and crack him open and scratch out a home for himself.

Sherlock isn’t sure how long they kneel there, but it’s almost completely dark by the time he gets them both up onto their feet, John looking lost in a way Sherlock has never seen before. By the time they get to Sherlock’s motel – John not once taking his eyes from him during the cab ride – John is visibly weaving where he stands, and when Sherlock slides out of his niqab and tries to push John towards the bed, John tugs him with him, and they end up wrapped around each other in the dark with John pressed up against him, his face buried in his neck as he holds on so tight it hurts. Somewhere in the middle of it all, Sherlock realizes that he had almost thrown this away, that he had almost left John alone with no guarantee that he would ever make it back, and he cradles John close as John shakes against him and breathes curses into his neck, holding on tight as they slip into the darkest part of the night.

\- - -

By the time a streak of light slips through a hole in the curtain, Sherlock is still awake – _warmth of John’s body, elevated rhythm of his heartbeat, unevenness of his breathing against Sherlock’s skin_ – and John is asleep against him, though he’s still strung tight and he keeps muttering, shifting and then pressing closer and then muttering again until Sherlock strokes a hand across his back, trying to soothe him, while, at the same time, trying to analyse why he isn’t alarmed by all this. By rights, Sherlock should be – at the very least – disconcerted by the amount of data – _never anything like this before_ – his body and mind are being flooded with. Instead, all he feels is the same way he feels whenever John makes him tea, or whenever John kills someone for him, or whenever John finds Sherlock sitting up alone at night and smiles at him and drapes a blanket around Sherlock’s shoulders – _safe._

And he doesn’t know what John wants from him – doesn’t know if there’s anything more than friendship buried beneath decades of heteronormativity – but Sherlock knows what he wants, and knows that he would give John anything – anything at all – if he asked for more. But trapped as they are in between _I consider myself married to my work_ and _If anyone out there still cares,_ _I’m not actually gay_ , Sherlock isn’t sure where that leaves them, and he’s not sure which one of them needs to ask first. Not sure if either of them ever will, for fear of being horribly, horribly wrong.

\- - -

In the end, John doesn’t make even a token attempt to pull away upon waking up, and there’s not a hint of embarrassment across his features, even though he’s still got Sherlock’s arms – _two hours and fifty-three minutes of cramping, restricted blood circulation_ – wrapped tight around him. It should be – awkward, perhaps, the two of them curled up together now that the adrenaline rush has waned, but Sherlock has no desire to break the physical contact, and John seems too exhausted to care about boundaries. Instead, he simply asks for an explanation, his voice low and shaky where his face is pressed against Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock gives it to him, realizing as he does so that fingers are stroking along John’s back – but John doesn’t seem to mind, so Sherlock doesn’t stop. It takes less than half an hour to explain everything that had happened, and by the time Sherlock is done, John has pulled back far enough to stare at him, something that looks like unease crossing his face for the first time.

“Wait. Say that last bit again.”

“John?”

“That part about how your original plan was to disappear for, oh – the next three years, or so. And to let me spend the entire damn time thinking you were dead.”

Ah. A rhetorical question, then. And based on the way John’s exhausted face is creasing into a scowl, it’s quite possible that Sherlock should have left out that part of the story – a theory that’s further confirmed when John pulls back to put some more space in between them, even if Sherlock’s arm is still trapped underneath him.

“You actually thought that –”

“I – it seemed prudent that – to ensure your safety –”

“If you’d let me think that you – christ, Sherlock. I’d more likely than not have offed myself long before you got home. How could you even –”

“Not acceptable.”

His voice is suddenly sharper than he’d intended it to be, _last night he dumped all his bullets and all the medication in the apartment into the toilet,_ and, this close, he can watch the minute details of John’s face – _lines at the edge of his mouth, smudges underneath his eyes, lips ragged, probably chewed on by himself_ – as they soften a bit, something fond flashing across his face.

“‘C’mon, you – your arm must be getting sore. Let’s –”

“I won’t let you – you cannot determine your lifespan based on mine. Do you understand me?” His voice is still sharp, and his chest is tightening uncomfortably, and John’s face is creasing into a frown again, but it seems imperative, somehow, to make this perfectly clear to John, to impress upon him the fact that his existence cannot depend on whether or not Sherlock is breathing – “If I – if I had left, thinking that I was keeping you safe – and then returned to find that –”

Traitorous body, throat closing up, eyes threatening to start burning again, _what has John done to him,_ and he closes them as he breathes low and steady, concentrating on the feeling of John still pressed up against him – until there’s a hand against the side of his face, and Sherlock opens his eyes to find John watching him, his expression once again sliding back towards fondness, and Sherlock wants to reach out and trace the lines of his face, wants to slide his fingers across John’s skin and feel the blood working beneath it, _heart still beating and lungs still breathing_.

“And to think I ever thought you unfeeling.”

“It’s –” He swallows at the look and the touch, does his best to get his wayward physiological reactions back under control. “You seem to be an exception. I don’t give a damn about everyone else.”

“Mrs. Hudson? Molly? Lestrade?”

“Well – yes. Them, too. But – not the same. You… you take precedent.”

Sherlock second-guesses it the second it’s out, because John is… not smiling exactly, anymore, and Sherlock is just about to assume that he’s pushed too hard when John’s fingers tighten against his cheek, and it’s like he wants to say something, but he can’t – _inhaling to speak, but no words on the exhale_ – like he might, possibly, be about to kiss Sherlock, even, here in this little motel bed, his eyes flicking down from Sherlock’s eyes to his mouth and then back up again, and Sherlock is suddenly flashing hot and desperate inside, but, _please, John, make the move, I don’t_ _know how_ –

“You’re… wow, Sherlock. That might be one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”

The moment breaks, then, though John’s voice sounds a little strained, and Sherlock isn’t sure exactly what just happened, but John’s already smiling at him and brushing a bit of hair from his forehead – _how can the simple touch of fingers be that incendiary_ – as easily as though he’s done it before, and then he’s pulling himself away, rolling off Sherlock’s arm and leaving Sherlock biting down against the rush of blood to the limb. He watches as John gets to his feet beside the bed, still smiling slightly, his clothes all rumpled and his short hair as messy as it can be.

“I’m – we’re not in a hurry, are we? I could use a shower.”

All Sherlock can do is shake his head, and John is still smiling at him, looking at him as though Sherlock is the most amazing thing he’s ever seen, and it takes every bit of Sherlock’s control to stop his skin from flushing hot. Even as he watches, though, the smile slips away from John’s face, leaving behind something that looks vulnerable, and Sherlock experiences the unfortunate sensation of his stomach clenching tight at the sight.

“John?”

“Don’t – do me a favour and just… don’t go anywhere, alright?”

John almost looks like he’s about to honestly start scuffing his foot against the carpet, and when Sherlock manages nothing more than a nod, that smile slips back onto John’s face, _minute_ _curve of his lips,_ and as soon as he disappears into the washroom, Sherlock lets himself fall back on the bed with a noise that sounds, even to his own ears, severely unimpressed, because – yes. Yes, he has made the right call in going back for John – but if they’re living in some insane new reality where John is still straight but more at ease with his affections, then Sherlock is going to spend a lot of time scratching off his traitorous skin until it stops burning to have John’s hands on it.

\- - -

After John’s shower, they have a planning session, wherein John – _wet hair, damp skin, smells like my shampoo, oh, hell_ – sits across from him at the tiny table, and Sherlock gives him a choice – to come with him, and help him hunt down the gunmen, or to go back to Baker Street and continue to act as though Sherlock is dead. John all but rolls his eyes at the one – “Do you honestly think I’d sit at home while you’re out chasing down criminals?” – and Sherlock can’t help a pleased smile before he spreads out all the information he’s accumulated so far. John may not have Sherlock’s mind for detail, but he’s been a solider, and he knows how to go into battle; and the more data he has, the better off they’re both going to be.

After that, they spend two days acquiring supplies, John barely letting Sherlock out of his sight the entire time, and – after hesitantly asking whether or not Sherlock wants more space to sleep, and then smiling when Sherlock mutely shakes his head, not trusting what will come out of his mouth – pressing up close beside him at night. It feels natural, somehow, feels normal, feels like John doesn’t want to be more than a few feet away from him, and Sherlock swallows hard against his burning skin and racing heart as he presses up against John while they sleep, his entire body – _inconvenient_ – flushing warm at the contact.

Then, when their two days of planning are up – they go. They strap everything onto their backs, and they fade away from the motel room as though they had never been there. Their journey is going to be dangerous and damp and cold and painful, and Sherlock isn’t sure exactly how long they’re going to be gone – but as long as he’s got John, then he has nowhere else he’d rather be.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock goes underground to track down the gunmen, he doesn’t do it alone. Unfortunately, Moriarty’s operatives aren’t exactly helpless, and when John ends up in the line of fire – again – the ensuing events turn Sherlock’s world inside out in ways he might not ever be able to come back from.
> 
> (A/N: Written essentially because I wanted some bad-ass!Johnlock going after Moriarty's goons. Also, WIP, but I promise to finish it.)

Thirty-one days after their planning session finds them in northern Germany, having spent several weeks tangling with some of Moriarty's lower operatives; and though they had eventually aquired the information they needed to locate Mrs. Hudson's gunman, they hadn't been completely lucky in how that final confrontation had occured. And while Sherlock’s no stranger to pain – can’t be, in his line of work –  that doesn’t mean that he’s fond of it, and as John slides the needle through his skin, _glass from the coffee table, they need to acquire new anesthetic,_ Sherlock closes his eyes and concentrates on cataloguing his body’s physiological reactions, because the alternative is reaching out and tearing John’s head right off.

“Sorry, Sherlock. Just – breathe, alright? In and out, steady as you can.”

_Heartbeat at 107 bpm. Involuntary tremble. Increased respiration. Altered temperature –_

“Look, I need my hands, but you can hold on to my knee.”

John’s voice is slightly strained, and Sherlock leans his head back against the wall behind him, even as reaches out to where John is kneeling beside him. It’s not much of anchor, but it helps, gives him something tangible to focus on, and by the time John’s done – _more muscle movement than in other areas of the body, more potential for re-injury, thirteen stitches_ – Sherlock can see his own knuckles turning white, and he’s nearly chewed through his lip.

“Hydrogen peroxide.”

There’s a splash of cold water across his thigh, sliding across the sensitive skin, and then it’s taking everything Sherlock has to stay still as a towel pats him dry. By the time John has a layer of gauze taped over the stiches, Sherlock has the fleeting – _ridiculous_ – thought that he’s soon going to be digging permanent impressions into John’s knee. He loosens his fingers and opens his eyes to find John, _six days of facial hair, mud from the gunmen’s garden underneath his fingernails,_ putting the towel into a plastic bag, followed by the needle and leftover thread, before John turns back to him, Sherlock’s blood smeared out red across the skin of his hands.

“Alright?”

It’s not a platitude – more a question as to whether or not Sherlock is functional – and Sherlock nods, dragging his eyes away, _my blood on his skin, beautiful_ , to study the body beside them. Acquiring an image of the first gunmen had been simple enough (“ _Think, John. Where was she, and was there anyone else there?” “I – there was some repair guy, downstairs with her – uh, no hair, tattoos all up and down his arms –” “Not necessary. I’ll acquire a screencap from Mycroft. The bastard monitors our front door.”),_ and his reaction to seeing Sherlock on his doorstep – yanking Sherlock into the house, punching him in the chest, and throwing him down onto the coffee table before John could come in through the window – had certainly confirmed that they had found the right man. Mycroft would undoubtedly be pleased to know that his hours of wading through facial recognition software results – and of unravelling a number of fake aliases – hadn’t been for nothing.

“Jesus. I didn’t want to –”

“He would have killed you.”

“I know, but –”

“I never intended to bring him home alive. No court in the world would have convicted him.”

There are two bullet holes in the man – one in his shoulder, from when John had tried to slow him down; and one between his eyes, from when it became clear that John was about to be pinned underneath the weight of someone much larger than him – and Sherlock watches as John stares at the body with a frown, until he turns to Sherlock with an expression that says he’s about to start protesting, and Sherlock shakes his head.

“Save the argument for later. I’ll bring the car into the backyard. We need to rip up the carpet that has my bloodstains, so we can bring it with us.”

Sherlock tries to move as he finishes speaking – tries to use the wall to straighten himself up – but his trousers are trapped around his ankles, sending an unexpected flash of embarrassment through him, _useless,_ and he’s just about to lean down across his own legs when John rests a hand on his knee.

“Uh uh. You’re not doing any stretching.”

John’s moving before Sherlock can form a protest, and the touch is perfectly clinical as he helps Sherlock to get his trousers back up over his pants. By the time he’s done, Sherlock is very determinedly concentrating on the pain in his thigh – anything to keep his skin from flushing and his traitorous hands from shaking – and he has a brief moment of irritation that John’s expression seems much calmer than what Sherlock is feeling.

Then, John is pulling out a knife and cutting into the carpet, and Sherlock pushes the thought away for later. It doesn’t take them very long to get the body into the trunk, _license plate under a fake alias, yet another thing to owe Mycroft for,_ and then they soak the front room in gasoline and light up the house, _damp grass,_ _deserted location, should burn for hours before anyone sees,_ and follow their research down an old logging trail to a deserted riverhead. There, they burn the carpet and the body and spread the ashes out in the river, and then they’re back on the road again, cutting through the country on a backwater highway that few people should be anywhere near. John does all of the driving – Sherlock’s injury being on his right thigh – and Sherlock sits and stares out the window and thinks. He would have preferred to kill the man somewhere other than his own home, _potential traces of our deoxyribonucleic acid,_ and burning the place down might not be the most subtle decision, but it should at least destroy the evidence.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm.”

“I’m not going to be your assassin.”

John’s eyes are straight ahead, fixed on the dark road in front of him, and Sherlock studies him for a moment – _exhausted, not enough nutrients, dark smudges under his eyes_ – before he looks away, experiencing the unfortunate sensation of his stomach pulling too tight. As a distraction, he places a hand against the injury on his own thigh, _moderate pain, still a notable irritant; we need to access new medical supplies,_ remembering how steady John’s hands had been when he’d sewn him up.

“I’m serious, Sherlock. I shot him because I had to. If we can get the other two alive –”

“The authorities wouldn’t have grounds to hold them for even twenty-four hours, let alone the months it will take to prove my innocence in court.”

“What about –”

“Even my brother cannot circumvent the entire judicial system.”

“But –”

“If we take them home with us, they will walk free, and we will be charged with kidnapping.”

Sherlock’s looking out the window by the time he’s done speaking, not wanting to see John’s reaction. If John has been labouring under a false moral illusion, and if this is the – deal breaker, so to speak – if this is too much for him, if, _he’s going to leave you_ – Sherlock’s body is betraying him again, his throat tightening up as he tries to get out the words.

“Do you – I can – find the other two on my own, if this isn’t what you – if you wanted to leave, I would –”

“Christ, Sherlock. Just – shut up for a second, alright?”

Sherlock does, pressing his lips tightly together as he return to staring out the window, watching a trail of liquid slide across the glass, barely visible in the darkness. By the time John speaks again, the rain is coming down in heavy sheets, and the wipers are scraping their way back and forth across the windshield.

“So we go back, then. Prove your innocence first, and then locate the gunmen.”

“You’d be dead the second I set foot in a courtroom.”

“Sherlock –”

The last thing Sherlock sees before the world explodes is John frowning at the windshield.

When everything stops again – _light, noise, glass, pain_ – Sherlock is upside down, his breath wheezing out of him and his hands scrabbling at the surface underneath him, seatbelt keeping him in place as he struggles to make his fingers work on the buckle, andhe gets his eyes open just in time to see John being yanked from the car, pulled out through the shattered side window. Everything inside him freezes, and then he gets his fingers on the buckle, leaving him tumbling onto the seat – and he barely begins to right himself, hand going for the glove compartment, _get to your gun,_ before someone is smashing the window beside him, dragging him out, _broken glass across his skin,_ and dumping him onto the wet ground.

“And here we all thought you’d done the smart thing and offed yourself.”

Blood pounding hot in his temples, _John,_ Sherlock rolls up onto to his knees with a snarl – only to be kicked down again, pain exploding through his stomach as he hits the ground and curls up. Distantly, he can hear John’s voice, but it silences under a wave of agony when there’s a second blow to his chest, _crack_ , and he sucks in desperately for air as he makes himself as small he can. A third blow never comes, though, and when he looks up through his fingers, _keep your hands over your face_ , it’s to find one man, _cracked front tooth, scarred left hand,_ pulling a second man away from him, _aim for his floating ribs when you get the chance_.

“Oi. If you kill him before we get him there, Moran’ll kill you.”

The second man is scowling at the first, and Sherlock can barely breathe for the pain in his chest, but he gets to his hands and knees again, blinking away rainwater as he tries to find – _John._ Kneeling three feet away andlooking mad enough to chew glass, as though if it weren’t for the gun pointed at him, _blood dripping down his forehead,_ he’d already be tearing into Sherlock’s assailant with nothing but his fingernails, and, _dear_ _god, John, what did I ever do to deserve your loyalty?_

“You alright?”

His eyes are locked on Sherlock’s and his voice is pulled tight, and Sherlock manages a nod – he’s not, _hopefully they’re only cracked,_ but John doesn’t need to know that – and then John gets cuffed on the side of the head, and Sherlock has to breathe deeply and ignore the red at the edges of his vision, or he’s going to do something stupid and get both of them killed. There are four of them – one holding the gun to John’s head, the second one who hit him, _your floating ribs, too_ , and the two who had been dealing with Sherlock – and when he pulls his eyes away from John, it’s to see that the back end of their car is ripped apart, and that there’s a cab of a transport truck sitting up on the road, its front end smashed up, _must have been waiting for us on a side road._

“Fine. Load ’em up, then. I’ll call ahead, let them know we’re coming.”

Sherlock barely has time to brace himself before his original assailant is hauling him to his feet, and then he’s being marched back towards the road, putting everything he has into keeping his expression neutral as he forces his feet through the mud, _thigh, ribs, stomach, chest, pain is physiological, ignore it, ignore it,_ and John is being marched beside him, his expression grim and his hair plastered wet to his head. It’s only when they reach the road and Sherlock is pulled towards one car, while John is pulled towards another, that Sherlock starts to struggle again, _no_ – until a gun is pressed against John’s temple, and Sherlock goes absolutely still.

“That’s better. Now in the trunk.”

John’s eyes are wide with sudden fear, and he doesn’t stop staring at Sherlock as Sherlock is spun around and shoved into a trunk, _thigh crushed against the floor,_ the entire world washing dark around him. He snarls and lashes out at the metal above him, _split knuckles,_ and then closes his eyes and very deliberately concentrates on breathing, _car turning on underneath him,_ reciting the periodic table in lieu of starting to scratch at the car walls around him.

_John._

Sherlock can’t hear anything over the sound of the car – has no idea if the second vehicle is following them – and he starts counting the seconds, _figure out how long it takes to get to their destination,_ ignoring the wet burn behind his eyes, the way his heart is all tangled up inside his chest and beating hard enough to choke him, _panic, breathe through it, breathe_ – but he can’t, everything inside him hurting _, you dragged him into this, he’s never been safe since the day he met you,_ and Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut tight as he makes himself count the seconds, doing the periodic table in another part of his mind, cataloguing the smells and sounds of the car in a third – but, _no matter how much data you take in,_ _John could still be dead long before you even reach your destination._

Curled up in the darkness, Sherlock counts the seconds and hates himself.

\- - -

By the time they reach their destination – _thirty-seven minutes, crossed the wooden bridge at twenty-four minutes –_ Sherlock is shaking, his clothes plastered wet and cold against his body. He’s lugged out of the trunk, _no sign of a second vehicle, don’t panic, don’t panic; dirt driveway, entire property surrounded by trees, large woodpile; small house, only one story, potentially has a basement; one shed, open door, two visible shovels, fuel canister, wheelbarrow, lawnmower,_ and dragged into the tiny kitchen, _two guards on the front porch, holstered handguns, back door through the room behind the kitchen,_ and shoved to his knees in front of someone, a nauseating flash of a agony stealing his breath as every injury on his body pulls in the wrong direction.

“Back from the dead. I should have just shot your boyfriend when I had the chance.”

_John’s gunman._

Sherlock raises his eyes, _dark hair, brown eyes, badly healed bone in the second finger on the left hand, this man already knows exactly how important John is to you,_ and puts all his effort into not scratching the man’s eyes out as he gets a hand into Sherlock’s hair and jerks his head back, involuntary tears blurring his vision and sliding hot and wet down the side of his cheeks.

“You killed one of my friends this morning – did you know that?”

“I was rather hoping that –”

“Suppose it’s only fair that I euthanize your little pet soldier in return.”

Sherlock wants to find some clever response, wants to force the words out through his distended throat, _you use emotions like masks, put on anger, wipe away fear,_ but he feels frozen inside, and then the man is scowling and yanking him up to bring them face to face _, no accessible gun on his belt_ , and it takes everything Sherlock has to not smash in his nose with his forehead. Instead, he bites his tongue and stares at him, _Moran, I assume_ , until Moran smirks at him and shoves him backwards, hard, right into the arms of the man who had brought him in.

“Search him, cuff him, then bring him to the cliff. Time for us to put on a little show.”

Sherlock has one last glimpse of Moran before he’s being marched down a staircase and pushed into an empty cellar, his leg somehow holding him as he stumbles forward into the cold room, _almost empty, blanket in one corner, pot in the other._ He’s just barely straightened himself up when the guard steps into the room with him, _five inches taller than him_ , and his eyes sweep up and down the length of Sherlock’s body.

“Strip.”

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment, wanting to lash out scratch the smirk from his face, _knife in the heel of my boot, lock pick sewn into my coat lining, lighter in my pocket,_ beforehe presses his lips together and strips off everything with as much dignity as he can muster, leaving him naked in the center of the room, his skin prickling unpleasantly and his chest flashing with new fire. The guard gives him an appraising look, sweeps his eyes across the length of his body, _don’t flinch, don’t give him the satisfaction,_ and then takes everything with him as he leaves, the windowless door locking shut behind him. For a moment, there’s nothing but white noise – and then everything slams in, _it’s only fair that I euthanize your little pet soldier_ ,and he very slowly and deliberately picks up the blanket from the floor, wrapping it around his naked body.

They are both going to get through this alive. There is no other option. And Sherlock will be of no use to either of them unless he gets himself under control, _ignore the fear, correlate the data_.

That thought in mind, he pulls the blanket closer around himself and very carefully sits down, closing his eyes as he watches every piece of data flash across the screen in front of him, while another part of his mind assesses his injuries – _ten stitches still in place, laceration down his chest, shards of glass in his shoulders and back, ribs either cracked or broken, split knuckles on his right hand, nothing bleeding badly enough to pose an immediate threat._ Lying down is going to be dangerous, though, and he needs to keep his breathing steady, _failure to fully expand one’s lungs over an extended period of time can result in pneumothorax,_ and he wishes he could carve into his chest and see his ribs – because fractured ones he can deal with, but broken ones might well kill him before this is all over, _a punctured lung can result in death within minutes._

All his injuries notwithstanding, Sherlock makes it to sixteen minutes before he’s down on his hands and knees – _steady, do not twist your body_ – and then up on his tiptoes, inspecting every inch of his prison, _room stripped down to nothing but dirt and concrete, nothing useful_ – but he doesn’t have long to waitbefore the man returns, _handgun locked into his belt holster_ , along with three other men behind him. Sherlock’s lock pick has been torn out of the coat and his boots and lighter are missing, but everything else is there, and he slips back into his pants and trousers while the guards lounge against the wall and smirk at him, _ignore them._ The blouse is a lost cause – removing it had been painful enough – and he balls it up and shoves it into his coat pocket, before he slides the damp coat on over his bare chest, his breathing nowhere near steady as he tries to keep his torso from moving.

“Hands out.”

Sherlock hesitates, _you need to find a way out of this,_ and then he barely bites down a snarl as one of the men grabs him while the first man snaps the cuffs around his wrists; and by the time he’s marched out of the house and across the yard, his thigh is giving off almost as much fire as his chest, _do not stumble in the dark,_ and breathing is becoming an increasingly impossible task _._ The six minutes and thirty-four seconds it takes to reach the cliff seem agonizingly long, and then he’s shoved up close to the edge – _full moon, barely enough light to see, unable to gage the distance to the bottom of the gorge –_ and everything inside him goes cold as he stares out at another ledge across the crevice from him, the giant chunk of rock sticking out from the cliff, and the moonlight just strong enough to reveal the outline of someone down on his knees, with a standing man holding a gun to his head.

_No._

Panic. Absolute blind panic. _Do not panic, you will be no good to John if – there is no guarantee that that is even him –_ and then a phone is being shoved into his hand, even as two guards move up to hold him still, and Moran is breathing down against his neck, lips brushing across his skin as presses up close behind him, and Sherlock cannot see well enough to discern details, _not enough moonlight for anything beyond outlines._

“Time for a little role reversal. Best put that up to your ear if you want that one last chat.”

And then Moran is stepping away, and Sherlock’s cuffed hands are being yanked up his body and pressed against one side of his head, just close enough that he can have his ear and mouth in the right places – and then the kneeling figure raises a hand to his own ear, the small movement just barely visible in the moonlight. Immediately, there’s the sound of unsteady breathing against his ear, the sound of John swallowing hard and then exhaling sharply, and, god, Sherlock’s mind is screaming at him, and _he_ _needs to think, he needs to find some way to –_

“Sherlock.”

John’s voice is more wrecked than Sherlock’s ever heard it before, and Sherlock feels his entire aching body go tense, and a red haze is gathering red hot and violent at the edges of his vision –

“Try anything, and he gets the bullet. At least this way you get your goodbye.”

Moran’s voice is low and smirking, _audible pleasure_ , and Sherlock is going to find a way to rip him apart, because there is – if there – if there is nothing he can do to stop this, then – _god, you were always going to get him killed, you selfish bastard –_

"Sherlock, talk to me.”

But everything inside him hurts, and Sherlock can’t speak, the words caught up inside his chest, and he hears John sigh softly against his ear, the sound long and low and completely and utterly beloved, and, _no, no, no, this cannot be happening, I need you, I need you so that we can go home together, so that we can solve cases and drink tea together and fight over whose turn it is to buy the milk –_

“Look, it’s – I’m not going to put on a show for these bastards. Suffice to say that – that – that it’s been an honour to be part of your life, alright? I don’t regret a second of it. And I – I’m just – I’m sorry you have to see and hear this, and I want you to know that I’ve always – that I’ve always – that more than anything, I need you to not give up, okay? Promise me, _please_ , that you’ll never give –”

Sherlock doesn’t realize the phone’s gone dead until there’s a gunshot, and – the body’s falling, twisting through the air and out of sight of the moon, and everything around him and inside him goes white, skin under his fingernails and blood on his teeth and voices in his ears until there’s a sudden flash of heat and pain, his mind screaming at him as the world around him washes dark.

_John._


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock goes underground to track down the gunmen, he doesn’t do it alone. Unfortunately, Moriarty’s operatives aren’t exactly helpless, and when John ends up in the line of fire – again – the ensuing events turn Sherlock’s world inside out in ways he might not ever be able to come back from.
> 
> (A/N: Written essentially because I wanted some bad-ass!Johnlock going after Moriarty's goons. Also, WIP, but I promise to finish it.)

When Sherlock wakes up again, his mind is still screaming.

All he can do is lie still. Nothing inside him is working right. His data won’t come. He can’t breathe. And there’s some writhing, tortured thing trapped inside him.

_I need you to not give up, okay?_

He only realizes the low moaning sound is coming from him when someone kicks him the ribs, but the pain barely processes. It’s only when he’s pulled to his feet, hands bunched in his coat as he’s dragged up, that he gets his eyes open – only to be pulled back and held against a strong body as he tries to leap forward and scratch his nails across Moran’s eyes, and when there’s a blow to his stomach, Sherlock doubles over but doesn’t really feel it.

“You clawed up a bunch of my boys up on that cliff. Pretty sure I’ve never seen anyone do that kind of damage with their hands in cuffs. I hit a nerve with that poor little soldier of yours?”

He can’t breathe. Something inside him is splintering. And as Moran smirks at him, andthe man behind him tightens his hold, and Moran slides a knife out from under his sleeve –

That thing inside him snaps, and Sherlock doesn’t fight it – clings to it – as everything goes dark.

\- - -

He thinks that three weeks go by.

He doesn’t want to crawl out of the home he’s made in the bottom of his mind, _it’s not a cage, John – it’s not like a prison, it’s somewhere safe, don’t you see?_ but the memory of, _I need you to not give up, okay?_ keeps find him even in all that darkness, and it’s only the desperation in John’s voice that eventually forces him to climb back towards the light. Data starts coming back to him, then – small amounts at first, and then large, steady streams – and pain, too, begins to register in a very real way, leaving him screaming until his throat bleeds as Moran stretches him out on the cellar floor and does his best to break him apart, _cracked ribs, five toenails removed, thigh injury infected, coat soaked in his own blood,_ a _rms and legs covered in cuts and cigarette burns, cheek split open, six fingernails removed, small cuts along the bottoms of his earlobe._ By the time four weeks have passed, he’s almost reaching the point of not being able to do what John needs him to do, which means that he soon needs to find a way out – because while he wants nothing more than to take a pebble to his wrists until he bleeds out, John hadn’t wanted him to give up, andthe very least he can do is to honour John’s last request to keep fighting.

And the first order of business is burning this place to the ground.

\- - -

By the time his plan is crafted, it’s been five weeks since – since – _do not think about_ it – and he spends several days making himself seem weaker than normal, flinching and muttering whenever any of the guards enter the room. By the time the habitual smoker comes to change the chamber pot, Sherlock is curled up rigid on his blanket with his eyes fixed straight ahead on nothing _,_ andthe guard barely spares him a glance before he turns his back – and Sherlock might be carved up and bruised and his stripped nails might feel like they’re hot coals, but if John doesn’t want him to die in this hell hole, then he’s not going to.

He’s on his feet with his blouse wrapped around the guard’s neck before he can do so much as shout, and then he’s kicking the guard’s knees in from behind – and when the guard goes down, fingers scrabbling at the material around his neck, Sherlock grabs him by the back of the head and slams his forehead against the concrete wall, a satisfying crack indicating that this guard is no longer going to be of concern to Sherlock. He strips him of his gun and lighter, retrieves the blouse and sticks it back in his coat pocket, and then he’s out the cellar door, barefoot, his coat soaked in blood as he makes his way up the stairs as silently as possible, _up the stairs, into the kitchen, window in the front room._ The man in the kitchen hits the floor before even realizing Sherlock is in the room, and by the time the shot draws footsteps to the kitchen, Sherlock is already out the window, cradling the kitchen garbage bag and using the shelter of the woodpile to make his way towards the shed, crouching down behind the building as people inside the house begin to shout.

_See, John? I’m doing exactly what you told me to do._

Within minutes he has snuck inside the shed and created seven moltov cocktails, ripping up his blouse and trousers for fuses, sticking them into beer bottles from the garbage bag, and soaking them with fuel from the small gasoline container. It leaves him in nothing but his pants and blood-soaked coat, and he doesn’t look at the burn marks on his legs as he puts the bombs into a metal bucket and then sneaks out the back of the building again – and as soon as he’s got two of the bombs lit, they go in through the open window, and he’s back behind the woodpile and using it to move back towards the house as an explosion takes out the wall of the shed, and two of the men from inside the house come running out.

_I could really use your skill with a gun right now, you know._

He has to wait until they get close before he pulls out two bombs, lights them, and throws them over the woodpile, the explosion leaving both men screaming as they fall to the ground, flames eating into their clothing. The distraction lets Sherlock make it back to the house, and then he’s climbing the tall television antenna, every movement agony as he forces his body upwards, the bucket hanging heavy on his elbow and his bare feet scraping against the metal bars until he’s sprawled out low on the roof, his breath coming in gasps as he lies there and just… lets himself not move for a moment. The hot shingles are scratching against his bare legs, though, catching on cuts and burn marks and leaving him blinking back tears, and he hisses through his teeth as he crawls across the roof on his knees, lighting a bomb and dropping it down the chimney into the kitchen. The ensuing explosion shakes even the roof of house, and he’s going to need to get back to the ground soon – but first, he crawls across the shingles and waits, perfectly positioned to put a bullet into each of the men who soon come running out of the kitchen, leaving four men down in the yard, their moans barely audible over the white noise in Sherlock’s head.

Then, something makes a cracking sound, and Sherlock slides as fast as he can down the side of the roof, scraping more skin off his feet and legs and leaving him gasping for air as he gets his sweaty hands onto the antennae bars and climbs back down, tears running freely down his face by the time he reaches the grass and ends up on his knees, his bucket beside him, and the gun clenched tight in his hand. He knows he can’t stay where is he is, c _ome on, Sherlock, get up, alright, John, I’m trying,_ and assoon as he makes it back to his feet and puts two more bombs in through the window – taking out the front room, and part of the staircase – he creeps around the back of the building, and, _please let him come this way; please let him have seen the bodies –_

When a single foot peeks out the back door, followed by a hand and a gun and then a second foot, something inside Sherlock flares hot and red and desperate – and when Moran takes a few steps away from the house, Sherlock puts a bullet into his shoulder, sending him crashing to the ground with a yell. By the time Moran’s rolled back onto his back, fingers scrambling for the gun that Sherlock is already standing on, _bare feet bleeding on the metal_ ,Sherlock has his gun pointed straight at his head.

“Is there anyone else inside?”

“I – jesus, you _bastard_ –”

“I have no qualms about shooting you between the legs.”

Moran bites off his words as he goes pale and shakes his head, and Sherlock keeps the gun on him as he uses his left hand to light the remaining bomb, picking up the bucket and throwing the entire thing into the house, _remove as much potential deoxyribonucleic acid as possible._ By the time he’s picked up Moran’s gun from the ground, Moran is rocking back and forth in silence, his hand pressed against the bleeding wound in his shoulder.

“Get up.”

“You won’t get away –”

“Unless you’d like to start losing your fingers already.”

There’s visible terror in Moran’s eyes as he stares at Sherlock, and Sherlock can feel something inside him beginning to crack _, do not think about it, you need him alive, John wants you to live, you cannot do that until the last gunman is dead_ , and it takes everything he has to not put a bullet into him as he jerks his head towards the trees, the guns wavering in his suddenly shaking hands _._

“Into the trees. Walk.”

Moran’s face twists as he climbs to his feet and stumbles forward, and Sherlock stays behind him with both guns trained on his back until they’re well past the treeline, picking their way through the forest until Sherlock can’t walk any further, every movement bringing new tears to his eyes, and the blood in his temples beginning to pound, _do not kill him, do not kill him, you need him –_

But something inside him is still cracking, and there’s a red haze sliding across his vision.

“Sit down against that tree.”

“You honestly think that –”

The thing inside him shatters as Moran turns around to face him, _John,_ and the gun fires without his consent, sending Moran to the ground with a scream, his hip blown wide open and his body twisting hard against the dirt. Sherlock gives him twenty seconds to writhe and curse before he crouches down and points Moran’s gun towards his knee, sliding his own empty weapon into the pocket of his coat.

“Tell me where to find the other gunman, or I’ll start shooting off pieces.”

“I – _christ,_ you insane _bastard_ –”

“You have three seconds –”

“I – jesus, fuck – he’s – Travis Stanton, he lives – _shit –_ Paris –”

“Address.”

“I don’t –”

Sherlock moves the gun just slightly to the left as he fires, sending dirt flying up beside Moran’s thigh, and Moran jerks hard underneath him, his breath leaving him in a wheeze.

“Fuck, jesus – somewhere on – the road’s called – Moussorgsky, I think – just please don’t –”

Moran lets out another moan as he squeezes his eyes closed, and Sherlock takes a moment to study the way the soil is staining with blood beneath him, before he reaches into each of his pockets until he finds a mobile. Then, he slides to his feet, _you smiled against my neck, that night, when you handed me that phone,_ and the gun fires again without him quite realizing it, leaving Moran shrieking and curled into a ball as blood starts to spill out from his stomach. Sherlock can only appreciate the sight for a moment, though, because his knees are going out from under him and he’s sinking into the dirt, just barely keeping the gun trained on Moran as he fumbles for the mobile and types in the number, his fingertips staining the small keys with red.

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“I need your help.”

His voice comes out barely there, and there’s silence on the other end until there’s a ragged exhale _, audible relief_ – the same thing that had happened the last time they had this conversation _._

“Sherlock, thank – I believed that you – where are you?”

“Germany.”

“I can contact the –”

“Only you.”

The words come out shaky as Sherlock breathes through a new wave of pain, and Mycroft’s voice is starting to come to him from far away, everything around him losing some of its clarity.

“Are you in a relatively secure location?”

“I can’t move.”

“You can’t – alright. Alright, Sherlock – where are you?”

“I – not sure. Somewhere thirty-seven minutes north of Highway A20.”

“I’ll trace the call and arrange the helicopter.”

Sherlock manages some kind of affirmative as he sets the phone down beside him, open, and then looks up to find Moran clawing at the ground, his limbs tight and his face pressed into the dirt – and between the three bullets, it’s not going to be nearly long enough until he bleeds out. It’s a shame, but there’s really nothing that can be done about that, so Sherlock simply pulls his coat a bit tighter around himself and leans back against a tree behind him, watching Moran twist on the ground as, presumably, a new wave of pain wracks his body.

“Just – _jesus_ – just fucking _kill me_ –”

“Tell me the name of the man who pulled the trigger.”

“He – Christopher – you already killed – the man in the kitchen –”

_Already dead, then. And much too quickly, too._

“Now would you please just kill –”

“No.”

 _“Please_ – christ – you can’t –”

“I can.”

“You – _shit_ – John wouldn’t have – _christ_ , if he could see this –”

Sherlock doesn’t realize he’s moved until his fingers are around Moran’s throat, _do not listen to him, do not – didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle – no, you cannot, just ignore that, delete that – why can’t you delete that?_ andhis chest is hurting and his fingers are aching as they tighten into the skin, _you were the best man,_ _and the most human – human being – I have ever known –_ andthen Sherlock is sobbing for breath as he puts one hand on Moran’s head and the other under his chin, the bones cracking underneath his hands as he twists the head sharply, leaving Moran’s eyes frozen in place as he stares up at him. Everything seems to slow down for a moment, _See, John? You always thought I was human, even when I didn’t,_ and then the world around him begins to dim, and that place inside his mind is calling him back again.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock goes underground to track down the gunmen, he doesn’t do it alone. Unfortunately, Moriarty’s operatives aren’t exactly helpless, and when John ends up in the line of fire – again – the ensuing events turn Sherlock’s world inside out in ways he might not ever be able to come back from.
> 
> (A/N: Written essentially because I wanted some bad-ass!Johnlock going after Moriarty's goons. Also, WIP, but I promise to finish it.)

Twenty-Seven Days Later

"As you know, dear brother –”

“Go away.”

“– I am not someone who scares easily. As such, I am rather concerned that you, of all people, have developed the power to frighten me.”

“Don’t care.”

“I have seen you more sober while you've been sobbing your eyes out on cocaine.”

“Busy. Go away.”

“If you do not stop this, you are going to destroy yourself.”

"How sentimental.”

“Realistic.”

“Leave me alone.”

“You’re trapped inside your own mind. It’s not what John would have wanted for you.”

“Get out.”

“Sherlock –”

“Get out!”

\- - -

Sherlock spends the first two months healing his body and building a wall inside his head.

He used to live without feelings. Now he’s going to have to learn how to do it again.

\- - -

It doesn’t take very long for him to figure out that it’s never going to be possible for him to not have feelings where John is concerned.

\- - -

Surely it cannot be possible to hurt like this and still be breathing.

\- - -

_You know, it’s probably a bit not good that you just carry on talking when I’m away._

_Don’t care. I need you. You help me think._

_I see. And what, exactly, are we thinking of today?_

_Formulating the best plan to kill the last gunman_.

_Right, of course. Should have known._

_Why the disapproval?_

_It’s just that – well._ _Killing him won’t bring me back, you know._

Sherlock barely realizes that the shriek he can hear is coming from him, and the next thing he’s aware of is Mycroft, pulling him off the floor and pushing him onto a soft surface, his voice less than steady as he murmurs things that Sherlock can’t understand. When the world starts to dim again – it’s developed a habit of that recently – Sherlock doesn’t fight it, knowing that John will be waiting for him as soon as he slides into that darkness.

\- - -

In the end, Sherlock allows himself three months before he goes to Paris. His body is healed – save for the new scars across his skin – and everything inside his mind has been carefully placed behind a wall. It’s not ideal, and he still has trouble breathing, but it allows him to get out of bed, allows him to think and to process data, and when he comes to Mycroft for assistance in getting to Paris, his brother doesn’t argue. They both know that nothing will stop Sherlock from going, and once they’ve used Mycroft’s resources to pinpoint some of Moriarty’s operatives in the city, Sherlock goes.

It takes him three weeks and several interrogations, but he finally gets the information he needs. In the end, it is shockingly easy to get a picture of the man who goes by the name of Travis Stanton, and one photo message to Mycroft confirms that the man had been part of Lestrade’s police force, and that he had disappeared right after Sherlock’s apparent suicide. It ends up being even easier to get Travis alone at gun point – thanks to a rather stupid habit of regularly visiting one of Paris’ seedier parks in search of heroin – and once Travis is done cursing at Sherlock, Sherlock puts a bullet in his head and walks away. He doesn’t feel much, though, and by the time Mycroft flies him back to England, it’s taking everything he has to keep that wall in place, _if that wall comes down, it will destroy you,_ and he eventually ends up curled up in the basement of Mycroft’s manor, the world closing in tight around him as he lies there and wonders what John would want him to do now.

\- - -

One hundred and twenty-five days after John’s death finds Sherlock alive again in the eyes of the public, and living in a small flat on the opposite side of London from Baker Street. Mycroft had agreed to pay for the flat as long as Sherlock would get out of bed and do something with his life, and Sherlock throws himself back into cases with a fervour that seems to disconcert both Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock doesn’t care. He needs the distraction from his thoughts. And the harder he’s working, the smaller the chance that he’ll find his old dealer and try to numb out the world again. The only thing that stops him is the thought that John would not approve, and since Sherlock wants him around to help solve cases, he’s not going to do anything to chase away that little voice inside his head.

Sometimes, though, he wonders how long he’s going to be able to keep doing this. The wall in his mind stays in place, but every single day it still hurts to breathe, still hurts more than any knife or gunshot wound, and – promise or no promise – it’s taking everything Sherlock has to not put a bullet in his temple.

_Why did you tell me to never give up?_

_Because the world needs you. And because you deserve a good life._

_John – this isn’t – I can’t – I can’t do this without you._

_Come on, Sherlock. I didn’t kill myself when you were dead. Surely you can do the same._

_You always were the stronger of the two of us._

\- - -

By day one hundred and fifty-six, Sherlock is convinced that he’s never going to heal. That nothing that hurts this much could ever be anything other than agony.

Giving up isn’t an option, though, and so he’s standing in the middle of his new flat, _first floor apartment,_ _one bedroom, no sliding door between the kitchen and the sitting area, front door opens straight onto the street, completely unlike Baker Street,_ staringat a wall covered in evidence, when his phone rings. He considers not answering it, but he owes Mycroft more than he’s at all comfortable with, _He helped to keep you alive, Sherlock – we both owe him for that,_ and so he sits down on the sofa chair and answers the phone.

“Mycroft.”

There’s nothing but silence on the other end of the phone, until Sherlock hears his brother make a noise that sounds like something between… relief and concern, maybe? He’s just about to ask for some answers when Mycroft clears his throat.

“I – are you in your flat?”

“Why?”

“There’s someone who wants to see you. He should be arriving soon.”

“You’re sending someone to my flat?”

“You shouldn’t mind this one. Just – don’t go anywhere. I will talk to you at a later date.”

Mycroft hangs up before Sherlock can ask a single question, and Sherlock scowls at his phone for a minute before he drops it to the carpet. The sofa chair is comfortable, and the front door is open. Whoever wants to see him can either let himself in, or he can come back some other time.

_Without me around, it might serve you well to make some new friends, you know._

_Not worth it. They wouldn’t be you._

There’s something that sounds like a sad sigh in Sherlock’s mind, and he’s just dealing with a new wave of pain when there’s a knock on his door. He squeezes his eyes closed as he tries to breathe through it, but by the time the door opens, he’s still aching inside, _worst timing ever,_ and he doesn’t open his eyes even when he hears the door click shut.

“Whoever you are, Mycroft better have a damn good reason –”

“Sherlock.”

Everything stops.

He can’t breathe.  He can’t hear.

Can’t think.

There’s nothing.

He only realizes he’s shaking when there are hands on his knees.

“I’m real, Sherlock. Open your eyes.”

He opens them to find John Watson kneeling in front of him. There’s a scratch across one cheek. There are tears in his eyes. He’s shaking. He’s the most beautiful thing Sherlock has ever seen. Sherlock can’t breathe. His vision is going white. And John’s hands are sliding into Sherlock’s.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock tries to speak. Can’t.

"Sherlock, I swear, it’s me. And I need you to breathe for me, alright?”

Sherlock tries. It hurts, but John wants him to try, so he tries. His vision is flashing white, though, and the room is spinning, his heart is beating too fast and his limbs are numb and –

“Hey, stay with me.”

Something is pushing him back, down onto the sofa, and the room slows down, but his vision is still – he can’t see, there’s too much static, and then hands are on either side of his face, and his eyes open to find John’s impossible face above him, and Sherlock can’t think. Can’t breathe, can’t process. Too much. Too much, it’s impossible, can’t be real, feels real, warm body, shaky breathing, but it can’t be real –

He only realizes he’s crying when a thumb swipes across his cheek. John – _how are you real?_ – is smiling at him, feels like being punched, and Sherlock is gasping for air, grabbing tight to John’s hand _real real real_ and pressing his mouth against it, _soft, real, warm, alive, alive, alive, too much, can’t process_ , clinging to it, lips tasting the skin, _real, warm, salt, alive, this is not a dream, this is not a mental collapse_ – and he only realizes he’s yanked John down when they’re shaking against each other, their hearts slamming together in between them, and then Sherlock can do nothing but lie there as John slides his arms underneath him and pulls him close, settling on top of Sherlock with his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, his solid weight holding him down.

“John.”

It’s all he manages. He can feel John swallow hard against him, and then John lifts his head, and they’re just staring at each other. Sherlock can’t stop shaking, _too much too much too much too much,_ and then John leans in to rest their foreheads together, and Sherlock is breathing his air as John shudders against him, their mouths inches apart and John’s tears dripping down onto his cheeks. For a moment, there’s nothing but John breathing against him – and then Sherlock twitches upward, _breathe into me, John, please_ , his lips almost moving against John’s, and John is shaking, too, breaths coming faster, mouths _so close_ together, shaky, barely there, _alive_ , and Sherlock can’t think, doesn’t recognize the noises he’s making, John pressing down harder against him as he _finally finally finally_ presses their lips together, and it’s too big, too much, _data overload,_ hischest growing tight and his eyes burning and his skin catching fire, and – _John_.

Everything seems suspended for a moment, nothing but the _so very gentle_ movement of John’s lips against his own, _salt and damp and finally finally finally and alive alive alive,_ and then John pulls back to stare down at him, his eyes blown wide and his mouth hanging open, _shocked,_ and Sherlock still can’t think, can barely breathe, but he somehow gets John’s face in his hands, _keep breathing into me, I need you to_ –and John shudders into his mouth as Sherlock drags their lips together and tries to suck the air out of his lungs, _never never never leave me again,_ until they’re both panting for air, and John is muttering against his mouth, _low, rough, warm, alive,_ words in between kisses.

“I’m sorry – I’m so sorry –”

It hurts, so Sherlock just kisses him harder, _warm breath, lungs working, don’t leave me, you can’t leave me, I won’t let you, I’ll keep you safe, I promise next time I’ll keep you safe,_ and then John’s arms are out from under him, fingers pulling tight in his hair, and Sherlock can’t process, _too much, can’t breathe,_ and he only realizes his fingers are fumbling for the bottom of John’s jumper when John freezes, pulling back to look at him, _flushed skin, swollen lips, dilated pupils,_ _alive, alive –_

“Sherlock, what are we –”

“Please –”

“This is – you’ve got to – if this is too much –”

Sherlock shuts him up by sliding his hands under his jumper, splaying them across his stomach, _warm skin,_ John sucking in a breath and visibly shaking at the touch, and they need to be closer – but then there’s a hand on his wrist, stopping him, and _no, John, please, please let me –_

“Can you walk?”

“I –”

“I’ve waited two years for you. I’d rather have you in a bed.”

 _Wave of heat_ , and when Sherlock manages a nod, _yes,_ John slides off him and tugs Sherlock up and lets Sherlock push him towards the bedroom, _white static,_ and by the time they’re beside the bed, Sherlock can barely make his fingers work, fumbles, gets them under the cardigan and strips it off, _beautiful,_ and then John is jerking against him and digging a hand into his hair as Sherlock falls to his knees and presses his lips against his stomach.

“I – _jesus_ –”

 _Need to be closer_.

Sherlock makes his legs work, gets upright again, nudges John down onto the bed and then starts to remove his own clothes, _John is alive, closer,_ and by the time he’s stripped down to just his skin, John has nothing left but his pants, and Sherlock can’t breathe, so many things he wants to – _trace every muscle with my mouth, every scar, every inch of skin, fingers, mouth, teeth, leave marks, count your heartbeat –_

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

John is staring at him, eyes sliding down the length of his body, _visible arousal, barely anything but pupils,_ but then his mouth pulls tight, and Sherlock remembers the scars, Moran’s handiwork – but Moran is dead and John is alive, and Sherlock wants to mark every inch of him, and they somehow aren’t touching anymore and that _hurts_.

“John –”

It’s barely a croak, and John visibly swallows before he slides out of his pants, _beautiful, god, perfect,_ and reaches up to tug him down – and then they’re naked against each other, nothing but skin and sweat _,_ every synapsis firing too quickly, explosions, physiological, mental, _accelerating heartbeat, arousal,_ and Sherlock is out of control, but with John underneath him, he can’t even care.

“You – you were dead.”

His voice is weak, his lips pressed against John’s neck, _leave marks,_ and John swallows hard, slides a hand from his shoulder and down across his collarbone, fingers trailing through sweat, pausing on a scar, _cigarette burn,_ before they spread out flat over his heart, and Sherlock needs to kiss him again. Gets his head up and gets his lips on John’s, clings to him, tastes salt from the way he's still crying, nothing but John’s mouth and John’s lips and John’s heartbeat, the little noises John is making underneath him, and the way John jerks when Sherlock wraps a hand around him is incendiary.

 _“Christ –_ Sherlock –”

 _Never thought I’d hear your voice again,_ and Sherlock licks his hand and then brings it back again, heart fracturing at the way John arches against him and bites out his name, and Sherlock starts pressing kisses against his neck, his chest, his shoulders, everywhere he can reach, jerking his hand in between them, the room blurring out as the seconds slide by, _save every detail, never delete them_. John’s penis is hot and damp beneath his fingers, and John is cursing and shaking and scratching at his back and rasping his name and biting down hard on his collarbone, his voice going wonderfully broken with every slide of Sherlock’s hand, every press of his teeth – and when John finally gasps out something garbled and soaks Sherlock’s hand and stomach, Sherlock kisses him through it, traps every tiny noise, tasting salt and sweat and doing his best to swallow every breath, _never stop breathing for me, John, please_ –

He only removes his hand when John whines and tries to squirm away, and then he splays out his fingers across John’s stomach and digs his nails in, slides his mouth down his neck until his face is buried into John’s shoulder, and he can feel the way John is still fighting for air. All he can do is hold on, listen to those breaths, and when a hand slides down his side and in against the skin of his stomach, Sherlock grabs John’s wrist, _I can feel your pulse beating, it needs to never stop doing that,_ andpresses it against the bed as he buries his face a little harder into John’s neck, _salt, warmth, alive, safe, soft, alive_.

“You –”

“Later.”

His voice still barely works, and his body is aching, _physiological symptoms of arousal_ , _partially erect, elevated heartbeat, increased temperature,_ but he doesn’t want – he just wants to concentrate on the body underneath his. Anything else would be a distraction. And maybe John understands that, because he only hesitates for a moment before he sighs softly and relaxes underneath Sherlock, threading a hand through his hair and sliding an arm around his back to pull him closer, and all Sherlock can do is close his eyes and hold on at tight as he can, _count every breath, save them, never delete them, alive, alive, alive._

\- - -

Sherlock isn’t sure how long they lie there, but eventually he lets John get him upright again, and after they’ve made it into the shower, they end up back in bed with Sherlock’s head resting on John’s chest, and John’s arm wrapped around him. Neither of them says anything for a while, but then John slides a hand down the skin of Sherlock’s back, his fingers brushing over another burn mark, and Sherlock can feel the way John’s body tightens with anger.

“I should have been there to help you.”

“John –”

“The bastards wrote me a goddamn script. Read it at gunpoint. Took a chance and added in the bit about you not giving up, though. I needed you alive to come and rescue me.”

But he hadn’t. Hadn’t rescued John. Hadn’t dug deep enough. Hadn’t collected all the evidence.

“I don’t know what poor sod they shot that night, but it wasn’t me. They kept me at one of their bases – needed a doctor – and the only reason your brother found me is that one of them pissed off someone with connections to the British government. I’ve never seen Mycroft that shocked.”

His brother. Sherlock had abandoned John, and it had only been chance that had brought Mycroft into contact with him. Without that, John could have languished there for – could have been –

“Did – was it Moran who –”

His finger brushes against the burn mark again, and Sherlock manages a nod, _don’t think about it,_ even as John tightens his grip around him.

“Did you kill him?”

“Yes.”

“Shame. I’d have liked to have a go at him first.”

John's voice is low and tight, the anger there an almost tangible thing, and Sherlock closes his eyes, because – it’s still too much. Everything, all at once, is simply too much to deal with. John still isn’t disappearing – Sherlock still isn’t waking up from a dream – and that means that this is real, and Sherlock cannot be expected to think or speak or breathe until he manages to process everything.

Lied out underneath him, maybe John understands that, because he gradually relaxes again, arms still wrapped around him, and Sherlock squeezes his eyes a bit tighter as he simply concentrates on the feel of _warm alive real_ skin sliding against his own.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock goes underground to track down the gunmen, he doesn’t do it alone. Unfortunately, Moriarty’s operatives aren’t exactly helpless, and when John ends up in the line of fire – again – the ensuing events turn Sherlock’s world inside out in ways he might not ever be able to come back from.

When Sherlock wakes up again, it’s because there’s a warm mouth pressed against his chest.

“Morning.”

John’s mouth. John’s voice. John’s breath against his skin. Sherlock swallows hard and gets a hand into the little hair that John has, fingers curving along the outline of his skull. John arches into the touch, slightly, before kissing his way up to Sherlock’s neck, and all Sherlock can do is lie there, _still too much data,_ until John reaches his mouth, a light brush of lips that slides over to his cheek.

“You okay?”

Sherlock manages a nod, and then sucks in a breath as John smiles at him and moves back down his body. There’s a mouth pressed against every scar on his skin, concerned eyes checking with him to make sure it’s all fine, and by the time Sherlock shatters apart, John’s fingers wrapped around him and John’s mouth pressed damp against the side of his neck, Sherlock’s vision has been reduced to static, and John is hard and hot against his thigh. Sherlock starts clawing his way back to coherency just as John spills against him, soaking his legs and groin with liquid heat, and by the time John is pulled in tight against him, they’re both shaking so hard it’s almost painful.

“I’m not leaving you again. I promise.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, pulls John in as close as he can, and starts counting his breaths again.

\- - -

That evening, they end up sitting on the couch, John with a cup of tea in his hands, and Sherlock wrapped tight in his housecoat as he leans against John’s shoulder. The full extent of everything hasn’t registered yet – he knows it will, eventually, but right now, _too much_ , and it’s all he can do to breathe – and when John gets to his feet and crosses the room to the kitchen counter, it takes everything Sherlock has to not reach out and yank him back.

“How long have you been here?”

Sherlock’s vocal chords still don’t seem to be working right, and he takes it all in – _ugly jumper, short hair, lined face, steady hands, perfect_ – as he works on making words happen.

“Thirty-one days.”

“Not long, then.”

“Mycroft grew tired of me living in his basement.”

John shoots him a look, eyebrows furrowed slightly, and the sight of him, standing there, is still so surreal that something inside Sherlock is beginning to ache again.

“What happened? After I – after that phone call, I mean.”

_I would really rather not think about it._

“I escaped. My brother found me, and I went to Paris to eliminate the final gunman.”

“You killed him?”

“Of course.”

“And Moran's gone.”

It's a statement that sounds more like a question, _maybe John needs to hear it again,_ and the name feels like being punched – brings back the basement, the forest, that cliff side. Sherlock swallows hard, watches John watch him, concern spread clear across his face – and when he manages a nod, the concern on John’s face fades into an expression of grim satisfaction.

“Good.”

The wave of affection that sweeps through him is so strong it hurts, and maybe John senses it, because he sets his tea on the counter and sits down beside him, hesitating until Sherlock slides onto his back and tugs on John’s sweater, and then John is settling on top of him with a sigh, his face tucked in underneath Sherlock’s chin and his fingers drawing circles against his chest.

“You particularly attached to this place?”

“Not at all.”

“Guess that means we need to talk to Mrs. Hudson.”

The words are soft, brushing against the skin of his collarbone, and Sherlock needs to find a way to process all of this, because that ache isn’t going away and his lungs still aren’t working right and his vision is starting to grow damp again, and all he can do is pull John in tighter and close his eyes.

\- - -

In the end, it takes them two months to get their old apartment back.

The damage to his psyche doesn't heal right away - can't, with how far downwards he had slid, hiding somewhere dark inside his head - and he has nights when clinging to John is the only option, counting his breaths and heart bearts - but each new time that he wakes up and John is, impossibly, alive, he can slowly feel something inside him begin to repair itself. It helps, too, that Sherlock and John are able to return to the familiarity of Baker Street - Mrs. Hudson, who had taken one look at John and then proceeded to hug them while yelling through her tears, _You can’t keep doing this to me, I can’t always be wondering whether you two are alive or dead_ , and the guilt on John’s face had been painful to look at – had been nearing the end of a lease with her current tenant, and Sherlock and John move back into their old apartment near the middle of October. The trees on Baker Street are just starting to colour, _gradual reduction of chlorophyll production, visibility of carotenoids and anthocyanins,_ and the warmth of their apartment is a welcome protection from the growing autumn chill, and as Sherlock sits on the couch and watches John carve into a pumpkin – sitting crossed-legged on a pile of garbage bags, with everything from his hands and elbows covered in seeds and pulp – Sherlock has to concentrate very hard on not getting to his feet and kissing John until he can’t breathe.

“Sure you don’t want in on this? You love carving things apart.”

“Human bodies are more interesting than pumpkins.”

John’s only reaction is a snort, his lips turning up at the edges as he spoons out another pile of pulp, and Sherlock proceeds to just watch him for a moment, taking in every detail. Neither of them have talked much about their experiences – John hasn’t pushed him on what Moran did to him, and Sherlock hasn’t asked what John went through while he was imprisoned – and Sherlock is well aware that, someday, they’re probably going to have several unpleasant conversations – but for now, all he wants to do is solve cases, catch criminals, and spend his time finding the places on John’s body that he best likes to be touched.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm.”

“You’re staring at me again.”

“Yes.”

Within two weeks after John had returned, Sherlock had already giving up on attempting to look repentant about this particular habit, and watching the skin flush across John’s cheeks – _every time_ – is something that Sherlock wants to make happen as often as he can. There’s silence for a moment, until John puts down the spoon, thoroughly wipes his hands and arms on a towel, and then Sherlock has to take a steadying breath as John slides to his feet and onto Sherlock’s lap, smiling down at him and pressing a palm, _still sticky,_ against the side of his cheek, finger sliding across one of his cheekbones until Sherlock can feel himself start to blush.

“John –”

“Let’s take care of us ourselves, alright? Just – in general. As much as we can.”

“I have no intention of going anywhere.”

Sherlock somehow gets the words out around the flood of data, the press of John's body sending each of his senses spinning out of control, and then John drags a thumb along his cheekbone again.

“Me neither. Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

John is still smiling at him, that impossible alive smile of his, and all Sherlock can do is catch John’s wrist in his hand, his fingers pressing against his pulse as he counts the beats, _alive alive alive – a_ nd then John’s mouth is on his, and his heart is beating against Sherlock’s fingers, and his mouth is warm and damp, and his breaths are getting trapped in Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock closes his eyes as he begins to catalog every tiny sensation, proof that he and John are alive and real and curled up on a couch together, filing them away in the safest corners of his mind, there to stay for as long as he lives.


End file.
